


do not go far from me

by freckledshoulderblades



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Priest!Kurt, Wild West AU, sheriff!logan, will update tags based on chapter content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-29 07:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16259576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckledshoulderblades/pseuds/freckledshoulderblades
Summary: There's difficulty in finding like minded people in this day and age, especially with most of humanity trying to murder their way through the mutant population. Personally, Kurt thinks it might be a bit more difficult to try and spread the Good Word while being put in positions that cause him harm, but he's never done things the easy way before this, so why start now?After a town runs him out by way of stabbing and shooting, Kurt finds himself in Whitehall, a tiny rural community at the base of a mountain range, where more than a few people have recently gone missing or been murdered. Logan, acting Sheriff, finds him bleeding out in the middle of town and takes Kurt under his (admittedly gruff) care. The two of them find themselves embroiled in a mystery that shakes the town, reveals quite a few secrets the locals have been hiding, and along the way they grow closer than either of them anticipated.





	1. Chapter 1

There’s a man, somewhere off in the dark that those who have recently taken over call the West. There is a man in the West, a man with blood running down arms and chants falling from lips, and this man dies easily and quickly.

Those watching believe it due in part to the vast amounts of blood he’s lost in the past few minutes, but the yawning inky black void that opens up from under his feet, the void that threatens to overtake the remainder of those that watched the ritual in this chamber, that’s the easier answer of the two.

The void is not the story, here. Neither is the man who died to bring it forth.

This story begins with the arrival of a priest in devil’s skin arriving late one evening in the small Western town of Whitehall, seeking food and lodging after a long week’s ride. An indigo complexion hidden behind a high collar and a hat drawn low enough to hide golden eyes.

Kurt is painfully aware of how terrible a disguise it is, but the long road has taken his normal disguise, bandages, and demanded he use them for better things, like the currently still bleeding lacerations across his chest.

Perhaps a doctor’s visit then, before food and sleep.

His horse ambles along the grassy path, very nearly at its own limit as well, and Kurt can feel the strength seeping from him in favor of a well needed passing out. He hazards a glance at the horizon, perking up just enough that his side lights up in pain from the movement.

A town. Civilization.

Kurt releases a breath, feeling it shudder out from his lungs, and urges his horse onwards. They’ll make it there by dark, but that works out in his favor well enough.

 

As difficult as it was to remain mostly stationary on the back of an emaciated horse, sneaking his way from building to alleyway proves much more challenging - Kurt’s wounds have opened up and he’s bleeding freely from the tears in his cassock, leaving small blood trails as he attempts to find a doctor.

Rather, a clinic, because then he can just steal the supplies and worry over himself without the inevitable fear that comes with his fur and his tail and his eyes.

Kurt limps his way past what seems to be the tavern, loud music and conversation drifting out into the streets, and more towards the center of town. There’s a rail station off in the distance, an official looking building with a crest above the door sandwiched between two smaller shacks - most likely a waiting area and the rail master’s quarters. The town itself is built from the station, split evenly by the tracks, and most shops are within a few minutes walking distance from this hub.

It’s there that Kurt spies a smaller building with a painted caduceus on the side, a simple one story abode with the words “Whitehall Hospital” arranged neatly on a sign above the door.

Kurt files the name away for later, stumbling towards the closest window. The candles inside are blown out, the fireplace glowing with remnants of a fire. It’s a simple room with an operating table and a large cabinet adjacent to the hallway door, said door itself being shut tight.

He tries the window, fiddling with the hinge, and sighs when it fails to give under pressure.

Kurt offers up a small prayer and poofs out of existence.

 

Logan would really rather be anywhere than where he is, nursing a lukewarm glass of beer handed to him by Jude, the bartender.

Not necessarily because the beer is bad - it’s just mediocre at best. The company isn’t really terrible either, the farmhand he’d spent a night with a week ago giving him eyes from across the tavern.

Logan hates Whitehall for the same reason many of its inhabitants do: a simple lack of anything to get the blood pumping. There’s no excitement to be had in this small, rural community. Too many families and well wishes and easy nights at the tavern.

Doesn’t help that the trains stopped running out this way a good three months back, and the only horse in town is the Mayor’s prized possession. Certainly doesn’t help that the next town over is a six day ride through difficult terrain, and while Logan himself might not have any difficulty with that, he’s not too keen on reliving death by thirst again.

Mostly, Logan’s just loathe to pack up and start up a new life somewhere else. The community here in Whitehall are more tolerant than most, and if they have a community bound mercenary that happens to grow unbreakable claws? Really, it’s none of their business. Logan’s done them enough good turns to earn his place on the outskirts of town, defending the livestock from wildlife and poachers.

Lately, though. Lately, there’s been too much going on, and it makes him a little more uneasy than Logan prefers. The Jameson boy, stolen from his home in the dead of night. Lucy, the doc’s assistant, found dead on the steps to her home a few nights later. A third of Phillip’s livestock found hanging from the clocktower, strung from head to hind.

Town’s getting scared, rattled, and the Sheriff’s too busy drinking to investigate the cause.

Logan takes a long draft from his glass, setting it down with a dull thud onto the laquered wood counter. Jude makes his way over, a lithe, older man with greying at the temples, and smiles wanly.

“You starting tonight then, Logan?” he asks, and his voice catches in all the ways he tries for it not to. Logan nods at the amiable man.

“Might as well.”

He stands, taking his leather jacket from its place on the seat next to him, and tips an imaginary hat at Jude. As Logan makes his way out, the patrons quiet and watch his going. A younger woman, in her mid twenties, wishes him luck, and the remainder of the tavern seems to light up with well wishes.

He pauses, grunts out a low “Thanks.” and exits the tavern.

It’s chilly outside, cold enough to make him shiver, and he shrugs on his jacket as he wanders down towards his home. There’s no candle light, the lanterns usually hung outside gone dim for fear of attracting something nameless and terrible, but Logan knows these streets well, has been here for nearly a decade now, and could rattle off the inhabitants of every building with thought to spare.

So when he notes movement out of the corner of his eye, a tall, lanky figure wrapped in black at the hospital, Logan drops to a crouch and watches the figure from a few buildings away. It’s easy to sneak up behind them, harder yet to make out who exactly this person is and then -

They disappear in a cloud of blue and black smoke, leaving behind the smell of sulfur and brimstone.

Were he a holy man, Logan would pray. Instead, he bolts for the hospital and freezes when he sees the same dark-skinned individual rifling through the contents of the medicine cabinet, very obviously favoring their left side.

He watches them remove a cassock that’s been very thoroughly desecrated with blood and dirt, watches as they lift up a white blouse that’s been soaked through with something dark and pungent.

Logan recognizes the indisputable tang of blood, recognizes the shaking in the individual’s hands as they try and remove the blouse as well. Logan watches them struggle and certainty coils low in his gut.

He taps on the window with a claw, very nearly shattering the fragile glass, and the figure freezes in place, head turning ever so slightly to focus on the short, stocky man just outside. The figure looks up, back at Logan, and smiles bitterly as they poof out of existence once more.

  
  


Kurt appears on the roof, one hand clamped over his mouth in order to stifle his pained gasps, the other trying to hold what feels like his organs in place. He knows he doesn’t have long before the man finds him, bleeding out, no bandages to hide his form, falling prone against the wooden slats.

Even if Kurt somehow survives right now, there’s the matter of what townspeople do to people like him, and with that man having seen him teleport-

There’s no way he survives this.

Kurt releases the grip he has on his mouth and tries to suck in a breath. The motion feels foreign and strange in his muddled mind, cool air passing his teeth and filling his lungs as his side burns in a way he vaguely thinks it shouldn’t.

There’s a clambering to his right, and the man fills his sight a moment later with wild, unkempt hair and what looks to be knives protruding from his hands. Kurt marks this off as a dying hallucination, given how he can barely feel the man as he lifts him from the roof bridal style, leaping off with a small grunt.

He hears a low murmur from the man, something about his tail, and can’t help the way he turns his head into the man’s chest. It’s solid muscle with just enough give that it remains fairly comfortable, and Kurt tries to appreciate this as much as he can while bleeding all over the stranger.

Kurt feels the man shift his body over his shoulder and the movement jostles his open wounds, sending a sharp, stabbing pain throughout his body. His vision grows fuzzy and dark around the edges, and the last thing Kurt sees before he passes out is the stranger’s face contorting into something almost resembling concern.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kurt has a wet dream, gets pricked, and logan gets a lead

There’s sand, thick and grainy, pressing into Kurt’s cheek, an uncomfortable ache throbbing dully in his side. It takes him a long moment to open his eyes, longer still to connect the dots between the sand, the beached fish, the -

The wall of water rising stories high, framing him in a tight circle. 

Kurt staggers to a sitting position, craning his neck as far up as he can, trying to see the crest of the wave, and pales at the realization that he can’t begin to fathom the height of it. The waves shift, spiraling, and Kurt can hardly breathe for the fear pulsing through him at the sight of the ocean in all its majesty.

And then Kurt can’t breathe at all as the sea collapses in on itself, swallowing him whole.

 

The stranger’s been sleeping for the better part of three days now, tucked away in the corner of Logan’s shack like an afterthought, though the care and attention he’s received from the gruff man is anything but. He’s only a little frustrated with the whole ordeal - as much as he very much would like to get on with his investigation, it’s not like he has any leads.

Before the town doctor finishes up Lucy’s autopsy, there’s nothing to go on but a smattering of her blood and the strange man in his bed.

Logan looks over the man for what seems to be the thousandth time, taking in his fine features and wiry frame, his blue skin that, on closer inspection, seems to be covered in dark fur. His tail as well, and the delicate devil’s point it ends in, the fact that he really only has three fingers to each hand. During the stranger’s recovery, Logan’s patched up his side as best he can and kept him hydrated well enough.

Best he can tell, the wounds seem to be healing up, maybe a little faster than a normal human’s would have.

Then again, it’s easy to tell he’s nothing like a normal human. Logan remembers his piercing yellow eyes, the way he teleported onto the hospital roof.

It makes his heart race a little, knowing there’s more people like him out there. There’s a possibility tied to this man, something that coils low in Logan’s gut and makes him want to bolt outside and run until he passes out from exhaustion.

Logan knows that feeling. He came here to escape that, to settle down and stop getting involved in things that heralded that feeling.

The man shifts in his sleep, coughing weakly, and Logan’s pulled from his thoughts. He stands, giving the indigo man a glance, and reaches over to the fireplace mantle to fetch a jug of water. As he passes the man, Logan chances another glance at him and freezes.

The stranger’s eyes are cracked open, wide and fearful, and the tail Logan had spent so much time thinking about was inching its way up to Logan’s neck.

Logan lets out his claws, and the tail recedes.

He continues to fetch the jug of water, pouring it out into a glass, and hands it to the man. The tail does the work for him, wrapping around the glass as the stranger pushes himself up to his elbows to drink.

Logan draws a chair from the nearby table and positions himself adjacent to the man.

“What’s your name?” he asks, low and hoarse.

The man’s eyes narrow, tail holding the glass out for a refill. Logan makes to pour, pausing just before the water can leave the jug.

“Name.”

The stranger pushes himself up further to a sitting position, runs a hand over his chin, where the stubble is starting to show through.

“Kurt Wagner.” he replies, and Logan notes a few things immediately - the foremost being Kurt’s heavy German accent. His voice is weak, like talking takes an inordinate amount of effort, and surprisingly smooth given his current state.

Kurt gestures at the jug with his tail, still wrapped around the glass. Logan obliges.

“What’s a German man like you doin’ all the way out here?”

Kurt finishes his second glass, setting it down at the nearby table. “What’s a man like you doing in a tiny hut like this?” he retorts.

Logan huffs a half laugh, glancing over his cabin. It’s certainly small, but it works well for him. A single bed shoved in the corner, with the fireplace crackling homely a few feet away. A dining table with two chairs, a small kitchen area, the outhouse out back.

Far enough removed that he wouldn’t have to worry about unnecessary visitors or demands. Far enough that he could keep to himself on his bad days, far enough that he could protect the townsfolk from wandering predators.

“Mindin’ my own business.” Logan finally replies after a momentary pause.

Kurt nods amicably, wincing at the pain trying to move costs him.

“Why are you helping me?”

Logan frowns. “Nasty shit goin’ on around here. I don’t have any leads, and you showed up.”

“Ah, so you are the sheriff, then.”

He snorts. “Acting sheriff, since the real one can’t hold his liquor.”

Kurt hums in response. A strange silence falls over the two of them, before Logan stands abruptly and moves to the kitchenette.

“You didn’t really answer my question, you know.” Kurt grunts out as he again tries to move. Logan curses under his breath, taking the few steps he needs to tower over the sitting man.

“Lay back down. You’ll open up your side again.” It’s not so much a request as a command, and Kurt listens, positioning himself so he can watch the shorter man work.

Logan starts to cook, leaving the cabin briefly only to come back with a small chunk of half-frozen meat. He starts to dice it, tossing it into the large pot alongside a fair selection of root vegetables. After a few minutes of preparation, he covers the pot and washes his hands, turning to face Kurt and lean against the counter.

“You teleported.” he states, and Kurt pales as much as his indigo skin allows.

“Did I?”

Logan lets out his claws again in response.

“Thought I hallucinated that, if I’m being honest.” Kurt murmurs with a soft smile. “It’s been...it’s been years since I met someone like me.”

Logan walks closer to the bed and holds out his hand for Kurt to inspect, who gladly takes the opportunity to run a finger along the top of the blade. There’s suddenly a tension in the air, something thick and heady, and only when Kurt pricks his finger does Logan pull away with a start, sheathing his blades with a slight cough.

“Let me get you -” Logan starts, interrupted as Kurt waves him off with a, “Don’t worry, it’ll heal -”

The awkward silence returns, and Logan rubs absently at the base of his neck.

“Food’ll be ready in a couple hours.” he says, and leaves the cabin.

 

Logan returns to the cabin an hour later with blood streaked across his knuckles and the beginnings of a bruise across his jaw to the sight of Kurt sprawled across the cabin floor, panting with effort as he tries to hoist himself on his feet.

“You fuckin’-” Logan starts, and hauls him up off the ground without a warning. Kurt yelps once from the initial shock, gasping sharply from the pain of movement, and crumples in on himself as soon as Logan places him into the plush reading chair by the fire. His face is ashen again, sweating from both the pain and exertion, and his tail whips around feverishly.

“What the hell were you doing?” Logan demands, looking over the scene. There’s a smear of blood on the wooden slats that make up his floor, and a bowl scattered over to the corner of the kitchen.

It’s easy to piece two and two together, and Logan rubs his temples in frustration. He picks up the bowl, wiping it down with a spare rag, and ladles a heaping amount of stew into the bowl. Kurt whines at the smell from across the small cabin, still curled in on himself in pain.

Logan strides over, snagging his dinner chair on the way, and sits in front of Kurt.

“Can you feed yourself?” he asks, and Kurt breathes heavy, trying to straighten himself out. 

He fails, meeting Logan’s hard stare with glazed over eyes, and motions at his side with his tail. 

Logan nods. “We’ll take care of that, don’t worry. Food first. You haven’t eaten in a while.” He spoons some of the stew into Kurt’s mouth and pointedly looks away when the other man lets out a shaky sigh of relief. 

After a few minutes of this, Kurt slowly uncurls himself and leans back into the cushions of the chair, eyes half closed and fingers twitching with every pulse of pain that wracks his lithe body.

Logan picks him up with ease, moving him back to the bed and laying him flat. Kurt watches him as Logan starts to undo the bandages around his midsection, gently working the bloodied cloth away from the reopened wound.

It still looks ugly - maybe even more so now that it’s had time to heal up. The wound itself looks far better than it had three days ago, new skin having healed over the majority of the damage. A few spots are broken open again, likely from Kurt’s movements earlier, but it’s nothing a little more time can’t fix.

“I need to clean these.” Logan says, and Kurt grunts in affirmation from his position on the bed. The unspoken ‘Don’t move’ hangs in the air as Logan exits the cabin and heads towards a nearby stream.

 

The stream flows from the mountain, long and winding and Logan’s just glad his cabin is upstream from the town, where a good number of the residents have take to bathing.

He’s taken a spare pot with him, and Logan starts to set up a small cooking fire in order to boil the rags clean after he’s washed the majority of the blood from them.

_Damn idiot. Shouldn’t try to move, especially with his side like that._

He nears the stream quietly - it’s always a gamble of whether or not any of the townsfolk will be around his part of the river - and cocks his head in confusion.

The water is already reddened.

Something close to apprehension settles in his throat, and Logan makes his way closer as silently as he can, scooping up a handful and bringing it close to smell.

The apprehension blooms into adrenaline - this is blood. Enough blood to redden the entire stream, and enough blood that the scent hasn’t been diluted much.

Logan scans his immediate surroundings, only noting a few rodents, and tries to follow the river up as far as he can with his gaze. It’s all red, and his heart sinks low in his gut.

Abandoning the bucket and the bloody rags, Logan hikes north, towards the stream’s source, and confirms what he suspected -

The blood is coming from somewhere inside the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> logan's pov: man this guy is fucking weird and people are dying/getting kidnapped and uhhhh fuck he might know something  
> kurt's pov: this short burly man found me out and kidnapped me but the stew's nice i guess
> 
> also what was logan doing the first time he left the cabin? punching bears or something idk lmao

**Author's Note:**

> hoo boy okay! recently got on the logan/kurt train and i'm absolutely living for these two and their dynamic  
> this first chapter is pretty tame given what i have planned, so I hope y'all like it!  
> comments are welcome, highly encouraged, and give me the motivation to continue working on things like this <3


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